


Fisherman's Blues

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Post-Canon, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fisherman's Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Written November 2007; prompt: _Dan/Casey, drunken affection_.

It's late. Very late, even by New York standards, even by _Sports Night_ standards, where school's not out till long after midnight. Casey is warm and sleepy, relaxed and cosy and ever so slightly buzzed, slouching in a corner booth with his legs stretched out in front of him, contemplating the beer in his hand and doing mental (stomach – bathroom + beer) = x? calculations that, truthfully, are a little beyond the capacity of his cerebral cortex. He gives up on the higher math. It's easier just to watch Danny, on the far side of the bar, watch him wrap himself around Kim and sway, just ever-so-slightly, just so much that it could be called dancing, just so little that it won't get Jack in trouble with all those new city ordinances that are either making the streets safe for decent folk or choking the life and soul from the heart of New York City, depends who you listen to.

There's been an odd little flirtation going on all day between those two, Kim and Danny, Danny and Kim. Casey's not worried (why should he be, you ask? Ahhh, he would tell you, because it would be an office romance, and office romances are Not Of The Good, please don't mention Sally or Dana, doesn't that prove my point?). But today is Kim's last day here at QVC, little fish grown big fish, big enough to swim to the top of the pool and swallow the most tempting lure and that should be the end of her only this is Kim and, knowing her, she will tug the unwary angler into the water with her and it's him (or he?), not her, who'll end up breaded and fried and served on a platter.

Kim will be okay. But, damn. Now Casey feels kind of sick. No more thoughts of food, he tells himself, and blinks, glancing around the bar for somewhere safe to rest his eyes. But nothing catches his, well, his eye, and before too long he realises that he's watching Danny again and he takes the line of least resistance and lets his gaze linger there.

This is nothing new. Casey loves to watch Dan when Dan's unaware of it and thus unselfconscious: loves to watch him (as he does now) throw back his head and laugh, freely, unreservedly, the long, smooth curve of his throat exposed; loves the flex of muscles in his forearms bared by his rolled-up sleeves, the breadth of his shoulders under the big, baggy sweaters and loose, concealing shirts that Dan so perversely favours; loves the way Dan's jeans cling to his legs and ass, loves that Dan favours button flies, with all their challenge and their promise.

(Tempting lure, he was saying?)

And Casey loves to touch, too, furtive and secretive though it has to be: a hand to the small of the back or cupping the nape of the neck, a quick pat to the arm or shoulder; that's all he dares. It is (he's not sure which) either a blessing or a curse that Dan is tactile by nature, will fling his arm across Casey's shoulder at the least provocation, lavishes his friends and loved ones with hugs as free and as warm as his laugh, whole body hugs that bring him close, too close, to discovering the secret that Casey tries so hard to keep from him, from himself, from them both, from you and from me and from everyone else in the whole wide wicked world.

_Secretly in love_ runs round his brain, and he blinks and shakes his head because no good will come of these thoughts, no good _can_. Just look at the way Dan's looking at Kim, looming over her as she perches on a barstool, just look at the way that women look at _him_. What chance is there that (if he's never done so yet) he'll ever look at Casey that way?

The thought's like a poisoned little arrow that pops Casey's happy bubble and leaves him marooned in cold, hard truth. He sits up, glances into his beer glass – it's empty, the glass is _all_ empty – and starts to push to his feet.

There's a hand on his elbow, steadying him. He doesn't need to look up to know who it is, doesn't need to hear the voice. He registers the words 'too much?' and 'taxi' and' see you home', and he smiles quietly to himself.

The evening isn't over quite yet.

***


End file.
